


Rush

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Javier rails you in a tac vest, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Javier comes home from work full of pent up energy from a raid.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	Rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilookedback](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/gifts).



Your day starts out like any other. Javi texts you good morning, you text back, wishing you’d woken up with him. He has a raid today and he’s always antsy before it, prefers to sleep (or not) alone, get into the office early, go over the plans with Murphy, smoke half a dozen nervous cigarettes.

He doesn’t text you midday as he usually does, sometimes sending you a silly whatsapp of Murphy’s face opposite him (Javi pretends to hate that they now share an office, but he doesn’t hate it at all). You check your phone, concerned, but then Murphy texts.

**STEVE** : Are you home rn?

**YOU** : Yes…?

**STEVE** : Javi incoming

You puzzle over that for a few minutes, pondering if you should make some lunch, and then the door opens, and you hear the sound of Javier’s footfalls on the hallway floorboards. After a year of sleeping together, a year of teetering on the edge of love, you’d recognise his tread anywhere.

He calls your name, and his husky edged-voice is deeper than usual, a little raspy. Like he’s been barking orders.

“I’m here, Javi,” you call back, closing your work, your hands on the smooth edge of your desk, your curiosity piqued, senses on alert incase he’s been hurt. He always wears a tac vest, but it isn’t unknown for him to sustain a nasty scrape, or even a head wound.

He comes through the door, his walk the stalk of a predator, and the dark, determined look on his face makes every hormone in your body  _ sit up and beg. _

He reaches your desk. 

His gaze is nearly black, pupils lust-blown, and you've rarely seen him look this feral. He still wears his tac vest over his shirt and jeans, and you wonder how desperate he is, what’s happened, that he came right to you, no hesitation.

“Baby,” he whispers. “ _ Te necescito. _ ”

You stand up behind your desk, knowing a question must be sketched on your face, and when you round the side of the wooden surface that Javi sanded himself one weekend, he grabs you, his mouth on yours, hot, desperate, and when he yanks you against him, you feel the ridge of his desire right there, and it makes you lightheaded, and you fist your hands in his thick, soft hair.

“Oh,  _ God _ , Javi.”

He’s all pent up, practically vibrating with tension, and he sets his hands under your butt and lifts you up to sit on the desk. You yelp as your tailbone connects with the edge of your hole punch and Javi  _ growls _ and shoots one arm out to sweep your pens, paperwork, stapler, and other office bits and pieces to the floor in one smooth movement. They crash as they hit, but then his mouth is back on yours, hard and demanding, and he’s licking into your mouth and yo couldn’t give a flying fuck what he breaks.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” Javi is biting off against your lips, his hands shoving off your cardigan and tossing it the way of your office supplies. “Thought about you during... The raid. Always think of you. If anything…” He nips at your lower lip. “Happened to me…  _ oh fuck, _ I can never get enough of you. Never.” He ruts up between your legs and groans as you tug his hair. “Just like that, baby. More.”

And you give it to him, tugging on the soft locks of his hair as he devours your mouth, then tickles his moustache over your cheeks and down your neck, bending you back a little so he can suck a little bruise over where your pulse flutters for the feelings only he can give you. For the rush that only comes in Javier Peña’s arms.

His fingers make fast work of the buttons of your blouse and then you reach one arm back to lean on as he bends you to flick open your bra and feast on your breasts, his moustache tickling, heightening the sensation. You arch into him and he grunts in satisfaction, his hands on your hips, keeping you pressed  _ there _ as he rubs up against you, all coiled tension, a panther ready to spring.

“Wanna fuck you,” he mutters against the slope of your breast.

“Do it.”

He yanks you off the desk and into a fierce embrace, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder, and he’s  _ shaking, _ and you curl your arms around him, taking comfort as well as giving it. He won’t tell you what happened, not yet, but he needs this, and you do, too.

“Take me, Javi,” you whisper, and he turns you, gentle-rough, and you brace your hands on the bare desk, thinking about the hours he spent kneeling by it, sanding each splinter carefully so you’d have a safe space to work off. Because you hadn’t been able to afford a brand new IKEA desk. He’d carted this home in his stupid huge truck and told you he was gonna make it just as pretty as you were; and the Texas came out in his voice.

Javier yanks your jeans down, and you hear the release of his belt buckle. Your muscles flutter in delicious, urgent anticipation. 

He palms your bare behind, his hands gun-callused and exactly how you like them, gentle strokes with a hint of rough, of gentle need. Javi’s hands are like him, adaptable, hard when you need them to be, soft when you crave comfort. He slips his fingers between your legs, parts your thighs, dips in where you’re already wet and needy. A keening moan escapes your mouth when he circles you just right. You arch your back and feel him getting his dick wet, providing  _ not enough _ friction, and you push down and in one smooth, stretching slide, he’s inside you to the hilt.

You both groan, deep and guttural, at the bliss this provides, and then Javi leans over you, keeping one hand braced on your hip for leverage and lacing the fingers of his other with yours, and the little intimacy makes you almost sob.

“ _ Mijita,” _ Javi whispers, and then he sets a punishing rhythm and it’s everything, and his thrusts send a tidal wave of sensation coursing through you. You shove back on his cock as best you can, and you’re rewarded with a growl as he nips at your shoulder, your blouse half off. Your jeans are around your ankles and you’ve never felt more needed, more gorgeous, as Javier rasps out praises in a mix of Spanish and English.

“Touch yourself,  _ querida, _ ” he commands, and you do, and when your orgasm hits like a freight train, you feel Javi’s knees buckle at the hot clench of your cunt around him.

“Fuck,  _ fuck… _ ” he swears hotly, and then he spills inside you, panting, his hips stuttering as he works himself through the high.

You turn and kiss him and he meets your lips sloppily, breathing hard, his heart rocketing against your back.

After, when he’s helped you rearranged your clothes, he just hugs you for a moment that seems to stretch and stretch. You nuzzle into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck, breathing him in, cypress cologne and crappy government coffee and mint gum, because he  _ is _ quitting, but it takes time.

“Javi. Baby.”

He sighs into your hair. “They were just kids,” he says, and you know he means Narcos that were killed today. “Eighteen. Maybe.  _ Fuckin’ _ eighteen.” His voice cracks. 

“Do you have to go back to work today?”

He shakes his head, and his shoulders drop, the coiled tension finally going out of him.

You tug his hand. “Come to bed. Just let me hold you.”

“ _ Te adoro, _ ” he says warmly, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

You reach up and unfasten the tac vest, let it drop quietly to the floor with the scattered paraphernalia of your work, and you walk to the bedroom and close the door, shutting out the world until tomorrow.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
